


Wondering the Drifting Road

by Restitutor_Orbis



Series: A Song Of Weeping Memories [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, The Warden is Dead, light fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Restitutor_Orbis/pseuds/Restitutor_Orbis
Summary: During the beginning of Inquisition, Leliana is reunited with an old friend from the Fifth Blight, the Chosen of Andraste, Amayian Trevelyan.





	1. Amayian I

**Author's Note:**

> TIMELINE NOTES:
> 
> So, this starts during the beginning of Inquisition; however, Leliana and Amayian had already an established relationship with one another during the Fifth Blight, due to Amayian's escape from the Ostwick Circle of Magi a few months prior of the start of Origins and him subsequently joing the Warden on his quest to defeat the Blight. Amayian is around twenty-seven during the beginning of Inquisition, and sixteen to seventeen in Origins. I imagine Leliana is around thirty-six to thirty-nine during the beginning of Inquisition, making her about twenty-six to twenty-nine in Origins. The main divergence is that Amayian was a former companion of the Hero of Ferelden, along side Leliana, Morrigan, and the others.

Somewhere off over the mountains, a wolf howled a song of mourning. Rolling through Haven like a summer rain storm.

Amayian Trevelyan ignored it; though he did admit that a wolf's hollow reminded well too much of the Blight and the darkspawn, but he knew that it was just his imagination taking a toll. _Most of the darkspawn had been driven off back into the Deep Roads, and they wouldn't come again unless they find the next archdemon._ He hoped he would not be alive for that one. The Fifth was terrible enough, and that had only stroked one nation and had lasted well over a year. He could not dare imagine what the First Blight might have been like, lasting through centuries. He had a sudden appreciation and respect to those poor souls who long since been forgotten in the pages of history.

He sealed his journal with a small gesture of his hand, and placed his pen to the side of it. It wouldn't be long now, he thought. _I'll be going to the Hinterlands shortly, and maybe Lavellan, Adaar, and Cadash could be here by the time I return._ He had sent letters to them, and he hoped that the ravens were able to arrive to them. _If not, I suppose I must survive this with strangers._

He rose from his chair, legs stiff and sore. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing a few cracks and pops as they returned back into life, and reached over the wooden table and snatched his staff in his right hand. His left hand burned, flaring a green light for a moment or two, reminding of him of the sudden new burden that he cared. T _here is enough burdens in this world for everyone to share, Maker. It would be quite nice if you had the decency of relieving me of some._ He hand ran a finger over the leather-bound cover of his journal, worn and torn from his many years of travel. Amayian Trevelyan had long forgotten what it was like to stay in a single place. _It must be eleven years since I escaped. Maybe only ten,_ he thought as he fastened his black fur cloak over his right shoulder with a golden horse-shaped button.

Outside, Amayian was greeted by a slash of brittle wind that passed through the Frostbacks, and he began to make his way through Haven. A small speck that was overshadowed by the grey mountains of the Frostbacks, it had came to a surprise when the Hero and himself found the village densely populated by zealous followers, claiming to worship an reincarnated Andraste in dragon form. That was a decade ago, back when he fought through the Blight with the elven man who ended the Blight with the cost of his life. Same had said that he died from a wound, others claim that he was killed when Urthemiel had swallowed him whole, and it was King Alistair that slayed the beast that killed their friend. Amayian himself did not know the truth for he had already abandoned Finderial's party a little before arriving at Denerim. Either way, his friend had died there, up in the tower of Fort Drakon. _If I was there, could I have saved him?_ It was a questioned that plagued his mind after he had received the news in a tavern. _I could have saved him. Forgive me, old friend._

The village that once was filled with zealous followers that worshiped a dragon in the form of Andraste was now filled with zealous followers that worshiped the Chantry version of Andraste. _A significant change,_ Amayian thought dryly. He believed in the Maker, and he believed in Andraste, but that does not mean had to believe in the Chantry.

Amayian walked off with long strides, stabbing the ground with the butt of his staff with every stepped. There was a sense warmth in the air, despite the frosty conditions. He watched as children walked by, some playing with swords, others giggling behind their small hands and others playing _Kill the Archdemon._ A strange little game that required one sorry child, likely the largest one in the group, to be Urthemiel, and two other children to be King Alistair and Finderial. Most wanted to be Alistair, but Amayian disliked that obsession with the bastard of King Maric. I _f it had not been for Finderial, we would not be here._ He knew it was an unfair characterization of his friend, but Alistair could never had won over Morrigan, Sten, and Zevran, even with his boyish charms. Finderial was one of the rare breeds: charming and handsome, with a good heart and graced with the wits of an Orlesian bard. _No small wonder why she fell for him._ He walked passed the children and up a few stairs that led nearer to the chantry. It was modest in appearance, yet wholesome with a touch of Ferelden's beauty in it. It was nothing extravagant like some chantrys in Val Royeaux and Ostwick, but it served its purpose, perhaps even better than their grandiose brethren. The stone bricked were stacked over one another, some weathered by the wind. The door was made of bronze, opening with a great screech when pressed upon, but it was strong, and it had survived through many years, going unnoticed by the rest of the world.

Amayian walked near it, but was taken by a familiar voice that had all but haunted his dreams so long ago. " _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just_." He turned his head, before his feet followed the sound of the soft prayer without his consent. " _Blessed are the righteous, the lights in their blood the Maker's will is written_." Amayianed leaned on the wooden pole that held open the tent's flaps. He watched the familiar figure, dressed in heavy chainmail armor, and a face that was cloaked and concealed with a purple hood that seemed thick to the touch. Her leather, elbow-length gloves flared widely at her elbows. It was far from the woman that he recalled back during the Blight. She wore leather armor instead of chainmail. She allowed her face to be freely seen, while now she hid behind a hood far thicker than was necessary. "Is that what You want from us? Blood? To die so that Your will is done? Is death Your only blessing?" Her head rose from her knelt position, and her hands fell to her sides. She turned and faced him, and he had to stop his breath from catching. She was still as beautiful as he recalled. The same flaming red hair that was cut short to her jaw. The same blue-grey eyes that seemed almost more blue-green in certain lights, and the same lightly freckled pale skin that was blessed with a light blush. Even her slightly long nose only seemed to enhanced her beauty than deprived her of it. There only a slight few changes. There were small wrinkles at her eyes and her mouth, and she looked more tired, less joyful and hopeful. _She must have missed him greatly,_ he thought. _Did she miss me, I wonder?_ "You speak for Andraste, no? What does the Maker's prophet have to say about all of this, Amayian? What's His game?"

Her eyes were softer than back in the dungeons. He recalled the flash of rage in her eyes when she first saw him, and he knew he deserved it when she did not intervene to save him from a strike from Cassandra. Still, even the softness was veiled with a harden, dark look in her eyes. He pondered if this was Leliana at all. She seemed more similar to a ghost. A shadow of the woman that once was. "You know well by now that the Maker has a strange, twisted humor, Sister." His voice was cool, far from the softness and tenderness that he used back during the Blight. We have both change, Leliana, he thought. For the better or for the worse, we have both changed. "For His supposed 'game,' I know not. I can not grant you any solace." _I have tried once, and you pushed me away for him. Do not expect the same affection that I once held for you to still remain._

"Then I supposed we must guess on what He wants." She rose from her kneeling position, anger flashing in her eyes. "You know well what the Chantry has taught us. The Maker demands repentance for our sins. He demands it all. Our lives, our deaths. Justinia had given Him everything she had and everything that He could have wanted, and he rewarded her with death." She had moved to stand beside him, and Amayian stepped a little away from her.

Amayian stared at her for a few moments, the slashing of the wind made his face go numb. "I do not know what you want me to tell you, Sister." Her eyes flashed once more. "However, I know how greatly you cared for her. You may have my condolences, if that means anything to you, but nothing more."

Her voice softened and her eyes fell to the ground, sad and broken. He had once hated seeing her like that, and he often played for her to return her to spirits, but he had not picked up a harp or lyre in quite a long time. He did not know how he felt seeing her like this. A feeling, warm and sympathetic rose to comfort her, to reach for her, but he smashed it back into submission. "She was our heart…" Her voice seemed for a moment to tremble. "She was the Chantry. Everything wonderful about it, she embodied, Amayian. She was the follower and the guider and the leader." Leliana turned to stare up at the Chantry that they once had both walked into a decade ago with cruel contempt. "If the Maker does not intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is he? I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me. Working with the Divine, helping people. But know she is gone. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing."

Amayian raised an eyebrow. He did not know how to approach this. If he offer solace it meant that he became soft toward her, and such she would most like believe that he might be walked over, again. By offering little care, he might lose a valuable asset to any future endeavors that he desired, and Leliana was valuable. A brilliant spymaster, perhaps, but he knew her, and that might prove just as fatal. _Trust no one but yourself, and nothing may hurt you, but you will be left wandering the drifting road alone. Trust only a few and they would come and cling and pull you down with them. Trust everyone, and you are the fool._ Those were one of his tutor's words, back when he was just a child. He had not listened to him till after he abandoned the Hero of Ferelden and his company during the Blight. He was a foolish child back than. He decided on the latter course of action. "You might have a new purpose, most people often do," he said. "It is up to you to decide if you will follow it."

Leliana stared at him for a few moments, searching. "I must return to my work. And you must ready yourself for your journey to the Hinterlands," she said, turning on her heel to walk to her desk before leaning over it. "I will speak to you later, Amayian."

Amayian nodded. _We have both changed._ The thought did not sit well with him. He watched her for a few moments, staring at the way her shoulders tensed and her jaw was clenched. _For better or for worse, old friend. We have both changed._

He turned on his heel, gazing up at the chantry. He tugged at his cloak with one hand before making his way to the bronze doors, cursing the Maker for the brittle wind and this uncouth Ferelden cold.


	2. Leliana I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana dreams of her long lost love. Josephine and Leliana worrying about each other's sleeping habits.

She dreamt of Finderial and his smile.

It was the sly sort of smile, revealing only a glimpse of teeth and the small dips in his cheeks. They laid there, bare beneath the omnipresent gaze of the stars, giggling at some foolish joke that he said. The wind was cool against their flushed skin, whimpering a high pitch with bundle of brown dead leaves twirling in the air before nestling down upon the grass. They laid in a small dip, surrounded by gently rising hills, not far from the camp where the rest of their companions rest.

Finderial did not talk, nor did Leliana, finding a tranquil peace beneath the shadowy-black sky of night. Far from the worry of the darkspawn or the archdemon, or anything  that may have disrupted them. They were with one another, and that is all that mattered in the grand schemes in their minds.

His eyes glowed a dark golden-brown, almost hazel in the darkness. _Elven eyes,_ she thought. They were beautiful, like flowing gold mixed with beaten bronze. Her thumb drew circles over the paleness of his cheek, soft and smooth. It was warm as well, and his cheekbone poked her thumb gently like a dulled dagger. His eyes fluttered shut and he released a soft, breathless sigh in pleasure. Leliana’s heart thumped in her ears and she felt warmth spread beneath her skin, up her arms, across her stomach, and down her legs. It was a pleasant warmth, contained, shining, and alive.

The wind whistled sharper in her ears and the warmth of his cheek began to grow cold, an icy touch spreading against her finger tips and down her body. The soft air that she inhaled began to choke her, and she gasped out. His eyes were black, now. Black and empty and dead. She felt warmth lapping against her skin and she glanced down with horrid eyes at the sight of crimson flowing from his side, drenching the grass in a cruel painting of red and green. Her hand clasped over his hand, the one that caressed her skin with such delicate strokes. The grass beneath pricked her skin like small little knives and daggers, drawing blood and leaving scars. Leliana began to sink, the night losing all of its stars and its light, a sea of darkness drowning the hills in its black, greedy waves, closing in around her, pulling her under. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came, only the darkness slipped through, choking the light left inside her, burning away the happiness in her heart.

It was early dawn when she woke. So early that Cassandra was still softly snoring in the bed next to Josephine’s bed. The room was dimly lit, the candles glowing a soft red, but light blinded her eyes in its harshness. The black shadows danced around the lurid flames like little danseuses. Leliana worse a loose white shirt to bed, her armor was nestled next to her bedpost. It was normal for her to wake before Cassandra. Her work required more time and much more delicacy than swinging a sword, but the bed that rested next to Cassandra’s was empty. _Josie,_ she thought. She pulled herself from her bed, her feet meeting the cold stone floor that sent a shiver up her spine. She was sweating, a cold sweat. She shook her head. She would bath later, if she had time. She usually did not, but she would try that morning, anyways.

Leliana pulled on her armor, her bones were weary and stiff, cracking beneath her skin. She first pulled up her breeches, a thick fabric that help keep the cold from slipping through, than her white shirt, and than the chainmail armor that swayed lightly on her body, and finally her hood, a thick purple cloth that kept her pale face from the burning sun. Her armor chimed when she departed from the room, closing the door softly so she might not wake up the Seeker.

The chantry had not woken. The candles’, dying and weaken, crackling whispers were the only sound that filled the hall. The statues of Andraste glared down on her with dark judge-filled marble eyes. She ignored them. Her steps muffled were by the carpet, and only the flickering of the flames danced in her ears. Her eyes were still heavy from sleep, but she resisted the urge to rub them. It was not the first time that she had woken before the sun was out, nor was it the first of the nightmares that plagued her but it was the first time that those sort of nightmare appeared. Most had been cruel reminders of the time that once was: of the first time they kiss, of the morning when she awoke to his body pressed against her. They were so blissful once, but now her heart tore at that reminder and yet it yearned all the same.

The door opened easily with a push of her hand. The sound of rusted metal grinding against stone echoed in her ears. Despite the differing of sound, she could not help but be pulled into a memory of metal meeting metal, of terrible roars that filled the red crimson sky.

“Leliana?” The voice seemed deep, soothing before turning to a more accented, cultured voice from the north.

Leliana gave her friend a tired smile, and she had to blink away the tears that formed from the blazing light. “Good morning, Josephine.” She closed the door with a small push, and the sealing echoed in the air with a large slam.

Her friend was wearing her typical clothing. A deep blue gown with shimmering golden fabric that puffed at her shoulders. An expensive necklace rested on her chest, and under the light it gleamed and shone softly. Her hair was pulled into an elaborate bun, with strands of black hair framing her face. “Good morning, Leliana.” She dabbed her pen into her ink and she smiled sympathetically at her. “Nightmares?”

“Yes. Though, a different one, this time.”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “That is...shocking. Pray, how do you fare? Do you need anything to eat or drink. I am sure that I have some wine in here, somewhere.”

Leliana shook her head, a small smile tugging at her corner of her lips. _Every since she was enlisted into the Inquisition, she has been no better than a mother hen,_ Leliana thought in amusement. “No,” she reassured her friend. “I am fine, and it is too early for wine.” She stood by Josephine side, glancing down at the table and yellow parchment that rested on desk. “Who are you writing to?”

Josephine glanced down at her paper. “The Marquis of Val Chevin. He seemed far more eager and accepting to aid the Inquisition than the others have been. He had at least _replied_.”

“I will send some of my agents to his estate.”

Josephine nodded. “It might not be anything.”

“Or it could be something,” Leliana continued, noticing the glitter in Josephine's black eyes. She sat down at the corner of Josephine’s desk and crossed her legs. “Any news from the Banns of House Trevelyan?”

“I thought you would have already known.”

“Should I be offended?”

“Perhaps.” Josephine smiled. “Nothing of any true importance. Most letters have came from Lord Rayis Trevelyan’s children, requiring upon the health of their brother.”

“You have reassured them, no?”

“As much as I could, but they still send me letters demanding a response from him. Apparently they have not received a single letter from the Herald. They fear that we might be withholding them.”

Leliana shrugged. “I have given the Herald all the letters that bore his name. I do not decide if he wishes to respond to them or not. It is his decision.”

“Of course.” Josephine placed her pen down and glanced uneasy at Leliana. “You seem rather neutral about his sudden return.”

“Why would I surprised?”

“I thought he was part of your party during the Blight.”

“He was.” Leliana watched as the candle on Josephine’s desk dance flicker with shining, lurid fingers.

“You haven’t seen him for over a decade, Leliana. I thought you would have a desire to rekindle your friendship once more.”

“My desires mean nothing at the current moment, Josephine.”

Her friend shrugged and scribbled something on the parchment. “News from the Herald?”

“I always send you his reports, Josie,” Leliana said, cracking away the remaining knots in her neck and shoulders. “If you want to know, Cassandra believes that they will be arriving at the Crossroads in two, maybe three days if they get stopped by a spring rainstorm.”

Josephine placed the pen on the table, sprinkled the paper with pounce, blew some of the remnants off, and sealed it with a wax seal that had the signia of the Inquisition engraved on it.“That is good.” She placed the letter at her side. “With luck, Lord Trevelyan will be able to gather some recruits and allies in the Hinterlands.”

Leliana hummed. “And some horses.”

Josephine smiled sweetly, but Leliana noticed the tired look in her friend’s eyes. “Those as well.”

Leliana raised a gloved hand to pull away a strand of black hair. “How much sleep have you been getting, Josie?” she asked, eyebrows knitted in concern.

Josephine sighed and her smile faltered. “Enough, Leliana. I can assure you of that. I have tried to sleep, but this place howals and moans from the winds, or they could be from the wolves. I could not sleep even if I wanted to. Why would anyone live here before we found Andraste’s ashes eludes me.”

Leliana shrugged, though the memory of that time rushed in like a current from a stormy sea. She could still remember the winter’s touch on her skin, and Finderial’s armor, the smell of leather and pines had soothed her nerves. She remember Sten, his armor gleaming in the grey sun’s light. She remember Amayian, dressed in dark robes clad with leather braces and shoes that made Leliana frat over him like a worrisome mother. He had looked pale back than, so much so that Finderial had wanted him to stay back with Wyanne, Alistair, and Morrigan, but he refused, and he had been shaking the entire time, leaning on his staff. It was well after they returned from the Deep Roads, and Leliana noticed that he had spent most of his time in his tent. What he was doing, she can not say, but she swore she heard grunts of pain and moans and the hacking of throat tearing coughs when she walked by, but Wyanne had stopped her from entering. “He just needs some rest, Leliana. No need to worry.”

 _Finderial should have left him back at camp,_ she thought. The boy was barely a man, only seven-and-ten for the Maker’s sake. _He should have been in Ostwick. Not Ferelden._ He had been a sweet boy. Quiet, distant, but sweet. He sang sweet as well, and she often found herself strumming her lyre, her voice rising to the heavens with his. It had been a pleasant time, despite the horrors that surrounded them. Their little camp was a family, a kingdom, a light that Leliana did not wish to lose. _But it's gone, isn’t it? Gone with you, my love. You held us together, and now you are gone._ She pushed the thought away as she rested her hands on her lap. “People are strange, Josephine.” She reached for her hand and squeezed it softly. “But you should rest, Josie. For me, at least.”

Josephine smiled and squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to worry for me, Leliana.” There were circles under her eyes, however, and there was a slump in her shoulders. Josephine was well versed in the Game, but Haven and the very few, proud diplomats that had taken to visit the village had tired her. _It’s not Antiva or Val Royeaux. She isn’t used to this weather._ Leliana noted to find Josephine a large cloak for her. _One to bundle her when she is working._

“Just a few more letters,” said Leliana, placing her other gloved hand over Josephine’s. “After that, you will rest. For how long, I do not care. Just rest.” Her hands squeezed Josephine’s gently. “I can help you if it is necessary.”

Josephine closed her eyes and sighed. “I can never win with you, Leliana.” There was a smile on her lips, tugging slightly upward. “Very well,” she said. “I will rest. Though, I except the same from you. Only a few reports, and than you to must rest.”

“I have work to do.”

“As do I,” Josephine said. “Still, as you said, we need the rest. Maker knows what the Trevelyans will write to me about. I do need all my energy to combat that. Free Marchers.” She _tsk_ ed, and Leliana laughed softly. The sound vibrated and danced in the room, and Leliana saw Josephine smile. “Is that laughter I hear?” Josephine teased. “What will the world say when they hear that the Left Hand of the Divine had the audacity to _laugh._ It would ruin the Inquisition.”

Leliana’s lips tugged upward. “I shall silence any rumors of such an action.”

Josephine laughed softly, but in the silence of her office, with only the gentle flickerings of the candle, it seem to rang like a thunderstorm. “Good, good,” she said with a hand raised to her lips. She cleared her throat. “Now, I just finished my work. If you like, Leliana, you can stay with me and work here. It is still dark out, and Maker knows how cold it gets during the night. Why do you even stay in that tent?”

Leliana shrugged. “Most assume that spymasters linger in old, broken towers with little birds chirping and crowing in warning. Ah, but none expect a spymaster to be open to the world, ready to share her secrets and to work so clearly and publicly. Most believe that I must be hiding something, only sharing the truth in private.” Leliana smiled. “It is not my fault that they are foolish enough to be such rubbish.”  

Josephine shook her head. “You have an most peculiar way of thinking, Leliana. Still, an old, broken tower is far more warmer than the brittle mountain wind.”

Leliana waved her hand in dismissal. “You are just saying that because Antiva does not have any form of winter.”

Josephine lightly pushed her in a friendly manner. “Leliana!”

“It’s true, Josie. You’re all summer and not enough winter or spring. Perhaps the Frostbacks will do you well.”

Josephine _tsk_ ed again. “Perhaps, Leliana. Perhaps. Now, go. Your reports await you, and I still have much to do. Maybe the Herald had decided to finally write to you.” Leliana ignored the comment, and  Josephine gave her a pointed look. “Remember: you must rest as well.”

Leliana hopped off the table and dusted her armor. “Of course. You must as well.”

Josephine gave her one last warming smile, gentle like a summer’s breeze. “Until later, Leliana.”

“Josephine.” Leliana nodded. As she walked toward the door, Leliana called out with a small devious smile on her face. “Oh, Josie. You’re dolls came in. They await you on your bed.”

She departed from Josephine’s office with a small chuckle as she heard a cry from the room. “ _Leliana_!”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! School has been a pain in the ass with tests and quizzes and homework and all that nonsense. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this new chapter. I'll try to get to the next chapter as fast as I can, but life is one sly hand.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!


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